RED    EARTH 

Poems  of  New  Mexico 


[1] 


After  the  roar,  after  the  fierce  modern  music 

Of  rivets  and  hammers  and  trams, 

After  the  shout  of  the  giant, 

Youthful  and  brawling  and  strong 

Building  the  cities  of  men, 

Here  is  the  desert  of  silence, 

Blinking  and  blind  in  the  sun- 

An  old,  old  woman  who  mumbles  her  beads 

And  crumbles  to  stone. 


3] 


To  E.  B.  McfT. 


5] 


H 


RED 
EARTH 

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CHICAGO 
RALPH  PLETCHER  SETMOUR 


The  majority  of  the  poems  in  this  book  were  first  published 
in  POETRY,  A  MAGAZINE  OF  VERSE.  From  the  Stone  Age 
was  printed  in  THE  NEW  REPUBLIC;  Trees  and  Horses  and 
Bird-Song  and  Wire  in  THE  DIAL;  the  others  appear  here 
for  the  first  time. 


1st  Printing,  December,  1920 
2nd    Printing,   July,    1921 


COPYRIGHT  1920  BY 
RALPH  FLETCHER  SEYMOUR 


CONTENTS 

RED  EARTH '. 13 

EL  RITO  DE  SANTA  FE 13 

LOS    CONQUISTADORES 14 

THREE  MEN  ENTERED  THE  DESERT  ALONE  IS 

A  SONG  FROM  OLD  SPAIN 17 

IN  THE  SIERRAS 17 

IN  THE  DESERT,  I,  II,  III,  IV,  V 19 

INDIAN  SONGS 23 

LISTENING:   BUFFALO   DANCE:   WHERE 
THE  FIGHT  WAS  :  THE  WIND  :  COURTSHIP  : 
FEAR:  PARTING. 

SAND  PAINTINGS 26 

CORN  GRINDING  SONG 27 

THE  GREEN  CORN  DANCE 29 

DESERT  DRIFT 31 

SPRING:  DUST-WHORL:  TREES  AND 
HORSES:  BIRD-SONG  AND  WIRE:  THE 
WRESTLER:  FOOT-HILLS:  WAITING:  AFT 
ERNOON:  CACTUS:  STONE-PINE  AND 
STREAM:  SHADOW:  GOLD:  NIGHT:  DES- 
CANSO:  PUEBLO:  DOUBLE:  FIESTA. 

FROM  THE  STONE  AGE 37 

CANDLE-LIGHT  AND  SUN 39 

CANDLE-LIGHT:  THE  MASK:  RAIN- 
PRAYER:  FAME:  SUNLIGHT. 

THE  EAGLE'S  SONG 41 

ON  THE  ACEQUIA  MADRE 42 

PEDRO  MONTOYA  OF  ARROYO  HONDO.  .  .    43 

UNA  ANCIANA  MEXICANA 44 

MADRE  MARIA 46 

CUNDIYO 47 

MANZANITA 48 

CHULA  LA  MANANA 49 

"CHRIST  Is  BORN  IN  BETHLEHEM" SO 

[9] 


LA    MUERTE    DE    LA    VlEJA 51 

JUAN  QUINTANA 52 

PETROLINO'S  COMPLAINT 53 

EL  COYOTITO 54 

NOTES.  57 


10 


RED    EARTH 


11 


RED  EARTH 
EL  RITO  DE  SANTA  FE 

This  valley  is  not  ours,  nor  these  mountains, 
Nor  the  names  we  give  them — they  belong, 
They,  and  this  sweep  of  sun-washed  air, 
Desert  and  hill  and  crumbling  earth, 
To  those  who  have  lain  here  long  years 
And  felt  the  soak  of  the  sun 
Through  the  red  sand  and  crumbling  rock, 
Till  even  their  bones  were  part  of  the  sun-steeped 

valley; 

How  many  years  we  know  not,  nor  what  names 
They  gave  to  antelope,  wolf,  or  bison, 
To  prairie  dog  or  coyote, 
To  this  hill  where  we  stand, 
Or  the  moon  over  your  shoulder   .    .    . 

Let  us  build  a  monument  to  Time 

That  knows  all,  sees  all,  and  contains  all, 

To  whom  these  bones  in  the  valley  are  even  as  we 

are: 

Even  Time's  monument  would  crumble 
Before  the  face  of  Time, 
And  be  as  these  white  bones 
Washed  clean  and  bare  by  the  sun   .    .    . 


[13 


LOS  CONQUISTADORES 

What  hills,  what  hills,  my  old  true  love? — Old  Song 

What  hills  are  these  against  the  sky, 
What  hills  so  far  and  cold? 
These  are  the  hills  we  have  come  to  find, 
Seeking  the  yellow  gold. 

What  hills,  what  hills  so  dark  and  still, 
What  hills  so  brown  and  dry? 
These  are  the  hills  of  this  desert  land 
Where  you  and  I  must  die.. 

Oh,  far  away  is  gay  Seville, 
And  far  are  the  hills  of  home, 
And  far  are  the  plains  of  old  Castile 
Beneath  the  blue  ky's  dome. 

The  bells  will  ring  in  fair  Seville, 

And  folks  go  up  and  down, 

And  no  one  know  where  our  bones  are  laid 

In  this  desert  old  and  brown. 

What  hills,  what  hills  so  dark  and  cold, 
What  hills  against  the  sky? 
These  are  the  last  hills  you  shall  see 
Before  you  turn  to  die. 


14 


THREE   MEN    ENTERED   THE 
DESERT  ALONE 

Three  men  entered  the  desert  alone. 

But  one  of  them  slept  like  a  sack  of  stone 

As  the  wagon  toiled  and  plodded  along, 

And  one  of  them  sang  a  drinking  song 

He  had  heard  at  the  bar  of  The  Little  Cyclone. 

Then  he  too  fell  asleep  at  last, 

While  the  third  one  felt  his  soul  grow  vast 

As  the  circle  of  sand  and  alkali. 

His  soul  extended  and  touched  the  sky, 

His  old  life  dropped  as  a  dream  that  is  past, 

As  the  sand  slipped  off  from  the  wagon  wheel — 
The  shining  sand  from  the  band  of  steel, 
While  the  far  horizon  widened  and  grew 
Into  something  he  dimly  felt  he  knew, 
And  had  always  known,  that  had  just  come  true. 

His  vision  rested  on  ridges  of  sand, 

And  a  far-off  horseman  who  seemed  to  stand 

On  the  edge  of  the  world — in  an  orange  glow 

Rising  to  rose  and  a  lavender  tone, 

With  an  early  start  in  a  turquoise  band. 

And  his  spirit  sang  like  a  taper  slim, 
As  the  slow  wheels  turned  on  the  desert's  rim 
Through  the  wind-swept  stretches  of  sand  and  sky ; 
He  had  entered  the  desert  to  hide  and  fly, 
But  the  spell  of  the  desert  had  entered  him. 


15 


Three  men  entered  the  desert  alone. 

One  of  them  slept  like  a  sack  of  stone, 

One  of  them  reached  till  he  touched  the  sky. 

The  other  one  dreamed,  while  the  hours  went  by, 

Of  a  girl  at  the  bar  of  The  Little  Cyclone. 


16 


A  SONG  FROM  OLD  SPAIN 

What  song  of  mine  will  live? 
On  whose  lips  will  the  words  be  sung 
Long  years  after  I  am  forgotten — 
A  name  blown  between  the  hills 
Where  some  goat-herd 
Remembers  my  love  and  passion? 

He  will  sing  of  your  beauty  and  my  love 

Though  it  may  be  in  another  tongue, 

To  a  strange  tune, 

In  a  country  beyond  the  seas — 

A  seed  blown  by  the  wind — 

He  will  sing  of  our  love  and  passion. 

IN  THE  SIERRAS 

Do  not  bring  me  riches 
From  your  store  in  the  Andes 
Do  not  bring  me  treasures 
From  deep  ocean  caves. 
Bring  me  but  yourself 
And  I'll  gladly  go  with  you, 
Bring  me  but  yourself, 
And  I  will  not  be  sorry. 

Do  not  bring  me  patterns 
Of  silks  or  of  satins, 
Do  not  bring  me  silver 
Or  gold  wrung  from  slaves. 
Bring  me  but  yourself, 
And  my  heart  will  rest  easy, 
And  your  head  will  be  light 
With  my  breast  as  its  pillow. 


17 


Do  not  bring  me  servants 

Or  oxen  or  cattle, 

Or  sheep  for  the  shearing 

Or  ships  from  the  waves. 

Bring  me  but  yourself 

For  my  share  and  my  treasure, 

Then  our  fortune  will  grow 

And  will  never  diminish. 


18 


IN  THE  DESERT 


I  have  seen  you,  O  king  of  the  dead, 
More  beautiful  than  sunlight. 

Your  kiss  is  like  quicksilver; 
But  I  turned  my  face  aside 
Lest  you  should  touch  my  lips. 

In  the  field  with  the  flowers 
You  stood  darkly. 

My  knees  trembled,  and  I  knew 
That  no  other  joy  would  be  like  this. 

But  the  warm  field,  and  the  sunlight, 

And  the  few  years  of  my  girlhood 

Came  before  me,  and  I  cried, 

Not  yet! 

Not  yet,  0  dark  lover! 

You  were  patient. 

— I  know  you  will  come  again. 

I  have  seen  you,  O  king  of  the  dead, 
More  beautiful  than  sunlight. 

II 

Here  in  the  desert,  under  the  cottonwoods 
That  keep  up  a  monotonous  wind-murmur  of 
leaves, 


19 


I  can  hear  the  water  dripping 
Through  the  canals  in  Venice 
From  the  oar  of  the  gondola 
Hugging  the  old  palaces, 
Beautiful  old  houses 
Sinking  quietly  into  decay.    .    .    . 

O  sunlight — how  many  things  you  gild 

With  your  eternal  gold ! 

Sunlight — and  night — are  everlasting. 

Ill 

Once  every  twenty-four  hours 

Earth  has  a  moment  of  indecision: 

Shalll  go  on? — 

Shall  I  keep  turning? — 

Is  it  worth  while? 

Everything  holds  its  breath. 

The  trees  huddle  anxiously. 

On  the  edge  of  the  arroyo, 

And  then,  with  a  tremendous  heave, 

Earth  shoves  the  hours  on  towards  dawn. 

IV 

Four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.    .    .    . 

A  stream  of  money  is  flowing  down  Fifth  Avenue. 

They  speak  of  the  fascination  of  New  York 
Climbing  aboard  motor-busses  to  look  downon 

the  endless  play 
From  the  Bay  to  the  Bronx. 
But  it  is  forever  the  same: 
Th  ere  is  no  life  there. 


20 


Watching  a  cloud  on  the  desert, 

Endlessly  watching  small  insects  crawling  in  and 

out  of  the  shadow  of  a  cactus, 
A  herd-boy  on  the  horizon  driving  goats, 
Uninterrupted  sky  and  blown  sand: 
Space — volume — silence — 
Nothing  but  life  on  the  desert, 
Intense  life. 


The  hill  cedars  and  pinons 

Point  upward  like  flames, 

Like  smoke  they  are  drawn  upward 

From  the  face  of  the  mountains. 

Over  the  sunbaked  slopes, 

Patches  of  sun-dried  adobes  straggle; 

Willows  along  the  acequias  in  the  valley 

Give  cool  streams  of  green; 

Beyond,  on  the  bare  hillsides, 

Yellow  and  red  gashes  and  bleached  white  paths 

Give  foothold  to  the  burros, 

To  the  black-shawled  Mexican  girls 

Who  go  for  water. 


21 


INDIAN  SONGS 
LISTENING 

The  noise  of  passing  feet 

On  the  prairie — 

Is  it  men  or  gods 

Who  come  out  of  the  silence  ? 

BUFFALO  DANCE 

Strike  ye  our  land 
With  curved  horns! 
Now  with  cries 
Bending  our  bodies, 
Breathe  fire  upon  us; 
Now  with  feet 
Trampling  the  earth, 
Let  your  hoofs, 
Thunder  over  us! 
Strike  ye  our  land 
With  curved  horns! 

WHERE  THE  FIGHT  WAS 

In  the  place  where  the  fight  was 

Across  the  river, 

In  the  place  where  the  fight  was 

Across  the  river: 

A  heavy  load  for  a  woman 

To  lift  in  her  blanket, 

A  heavy  load  for  a  woman 

To  carry  on  her  shoulder. 

In  the  place  where  the  fight  was 

Across  the  river, 


23 


In  the  place  where  the  fight  was 

Across  the  river: 

The  women  go  wailing 

To  gather  the  wounded, 

The  women  go  wailing 

To  pick  up  the  dead. 

THE  WIND 

The  wind  is  carrying  me  round  the  sky; 
The  wind  is  carrying  me  round  the  sky. 
My  body  is  here  in  the  valley— 
The  wind  is  carrying  me  round  the  sky. 

COURTSHIP 

When  I  go  I  will  give  you  surely 
What  you  will  wear  if  you  go  with  me; 
A  blanket  of  red  and  a  bright  girdle, 
Two  new  moccasins  and  a  silver  necklace. 
When  I  go  I  will  give  you  surely 
What  you  will  wear  if  you  go  with  me! 

FEAR 

The  odor  of  death 
In  the  front  of  my  body, 
The  odor  of  death 
Before  me — 

Is  there  any  one 

Who  would  weep  for  me? 

My  wife 

Would  weep  for  me. 


[24 


PARTING 

Now  I  go,  do  not  weep,  woman — 

Woman,  do  not  weep; 

Though  I  go  from  you  to  die, 

We  shall  both  lie  down 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  sleep. 

Now  I  go,  do  not  weep,  woman — 

Woman,  do  not  weep; 

Earth  is  our  mother  and  our  tent  the  sky, 

Though  I  go  from  you  to  die, 

We  shall  both  lie  down 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  sleep. 


25 


SAND  PAINTINGS 

The  dawn  breeze 
Loosens  the  leaves 
Of  the  trees, 
The  wide  sky  quivers 
With  awakened  birds. 

Two  blue  runners 
Come  from  the  east, 
One  has  a  scarf  of  silver, 
One  flings  pine-boughs 
Across  the  sky. 

Noon-day  stretched 
In  gigantic  slumber — 
Red  copper  cliffs 
Rigid  in  sunlight. 

An  old  man  stoops 
For  a  forgotten  faggot, 
Forehead  of  bronze 
Between  white  locks 
Bound  with  a  rag  of  scarlet. 

Where  one  door  stands  open, 
The  female  moon 
Beckons  to  darkness 
And  disappears. 


26 


CORN-GRINDING  SONG 

TESUQUE  PUEBLO 

This  way  from  the  north 

Comes  the  cloud, 

Very  blue, 

And   inside  the  cloud   is  the  blue  corn, 

How  beautiful  the  cloud 
Bringing  corn  of  blue  color! 

This  way  from  the  west 

Comes  the  cloud, 

Very  yellow, 

And  inside  the  cloud  is  the  yellow  corn. 

How  beautiful  the  cloud 
Bringing  corn  of  yellow  color! 

This  way  from  the  south 
Comes  the  cloud, 
Very  red, 

And  inside  the  cloud  is  the  red  corn. 

How  beautiful  the  cloud 
Bringing  corn  of  red  color! 

This  way  from  the  east 

Comes  the  cloud, 

Very  white, 

And  inside  the  cloud  is  the  white  corn. 

How  beautiful  the  cloud 
Bringing  corn  of  white  color! 


27 


How  beautiful  the  clouds 
From  the  north  and  the  west 
From  the  south  and  the  east 
Bringing  corn  of  all  colors! 


From  the  Indian 


[28 


THE  GREEN  CORN  DANCE 
SAN  ILDEFONSO 

Far  in  the  east 

The  gods  beat 

On  thunder  drums.    .    . 

With  rhythmic  thud 
The  dancers'  feet 
Answer  the  beat 
Of  the  thunder  drums. 

Eagle  feather 
On  raven  hair, 
With  bright  tablita's 
Turquoise  glare. 

Tasselled  corn 
Stands  tall  arid  fair 
From  rain-washed  roots 
Through  lambent  air. 

Corn  springs  up 

From  the  seed  in  the  ground, 

The  cradled  corn 

By  the  sun  is  found. 

Eagle  feather 
And  turkey  plume 
From  the  wind-swept  cloud 
Bring  rain  and  gloom. 

Hid  in  the  cloud 

The  wind  brings  rain 

And  the  water-song 

To  the  dust-parched  plain. 

[29] 


Far  in  the  east 
The  gods  retreat 
As  the  thunder  drums 
Grow  small  and  sweet. 

The  dancers'  feet 
Echo  the  sound 
As  the  drums  grow  faint 
And  the  rain  comes  down. 


30] 


DESERT  DRIFT 
SPRING 

Spring  has  come 

To  the  apricot  boughs; 

The  cottonwoods 

Fringe  green  on  the  branches. 

Today  the  flood-gates  are  opened, 

And  thin  streams  loosed 

From  the  high  peaks  of  snow 

To  acequias  in  the  valley. 

DUST-WHORL 

The  wind  picks  up  a  handful  of  dust, 

And  sets  it  down — 

Faint  spiral  of  lives 

Lived  long  ago  on  the  desert. 

TREES  AND  HORSES 

Trees  stand  motionless  among  themselves, 

Some  are  solitary. 

Horses  wander  over  wide  pastures; 

At  night  they  herd  closely, 

Rumps  hunched  to  the  wind. 

BIRD-SONG  AND  WIRE 

The  Rocky-Mountain  blue-bird 
Is  a  point  of  blue  fire; 
The  meadow-lark 
Sings  above  the  hum 
Of  the  telephone  wire. 

Straight  and  gaunt 
The  poles  stand; 
They  walk  stiffly 
Over  a  thousand  leagues 
Of  rough  land. 

[31] 


THE  WRESTLER 

The  tired  wind  creeps  down  the  canyon 
At  nightfall. 

By  day  it  turns  and  flings  itself 
Against  the  granite  face  of  the  mountains. 

FOOT-HILLS 

New  Mexico  hills 

Are  spotted  like  lizards, 

They  sinuously  glide  and  dissemble; 

If  you  take  a  forked  stick 

You  may  catch  one  and  hold  it. 

WAITING 

More  still  than  death 

That  waits  a  thousand  years 

In  a  new-ploughed  field 

Of  up-tured  bones; 

So  will  I  wait  for  you 

A  thousand  years. 

AFTERNOON 

Earth  tips  to  the  west 

And  the  hills  lean  backward — 

Cedar-trees 

Hugging  the  hillsides. 

Smoke  drifts  in  the  valley — 
The  pinto  sun 
Nickers  over  the  gate 
Of  the  home  corral. 


32 


CACTUS 

The  cactus  scrawls  crude  hieroglyphs  against  the 

sky; 

It  reaches  with  twisted,  inquisitive  fingers 
To  clutch  the  throat  of  something  and  question 

Why. 

STONE-PINE  AND  STREAM 

The  stone-pine  with  green  branches 

Stands  on  the  brink  of  the  canyon, 

The  wind  whispers  in  the  tree — 

The  wind  lifts  my  hair. 

Water  runs  with  a  pattern  of  braided  and  woven 

music 

Through  the  stream  in  the  canyon — 
My  body  flows  like  water  through  the  stream  in 

the  canyon. 

SHADOW 

A  deep  blue  shadow  falls 
On  the  face  of  the  mountain — 
What  great  bird's  wing 
Has  dropped  a  feather? 

GOLD 

Gold  is  under  these  hills; 

And  the  wind  piles  sand 

Through  the  cracks  of  deserted  cabins. 

Gold  chinked  over  the  counters, 
Gold  poured  into  the  glasses, 
Gold  flickered  and  flamed 
In  the  spendthrift  gleam 
Of  a  woman's  hair   .    .    . 

Gold  is  under  these  hills, 
Gold  in  the  empty  sunlight. 

f331 


NIGHT 

The  night  is  dark,  and  the  moon 
Moves  heavily,  dragging  a  cross; 
Tenitent  peaks  drip,  crowned  with  cactus; 
Phe  wind  whips  itself  mournfully 
Through  the  arroyos. 

DESCANSO 

Beside  this  wooden  cross 

By  the  cross  of  the  desert  cactus, 

The  coffin-bearers  rested: 

'Tray  for  the  soul 

Of  Manual  Rodriguez," 

And  remember 

That  death  is  the  end  of  life. 

PUEBLO 

The  pueblo  rises  under  the  sun-bronzed  noon 

As  if  hammered  out  of  copper; 

The  sky's  metallic  blue 

Rings  in  the  silence. 

Nothing  moves  but  the  shapes 

That  strain  without  changing. 

DOUBLE 

Who  is  this  running  with  me 
Whose  shadow  alone  I  see, 
And  at  high  noon  hear  only 
The  soft  tread  of  his  sandals? 


34 


FIESTA 

The  sun  dances  to  the  drums 
With  cottonwood  boughs 
On  head  and  ankles. 

The  moon  steps  softly 
In  a  turquoise  tablita. 

The  stars  run  to  pick  up 
The  eagle  feathers 
Dropped  by  the  dancers. 


[35] 


FROM  THE  STONE  AGE 

Long  ago  some  one  carved  me  in  the  semblance 
of  a  god. 

I  have  forgot  now  what  god  I  was  meant  to 
represent. 

I  have  no  consciousness  now  but  of  stone,  sun 
light,  and  rain; 

The  sun  baking  my  skin  of  stone,  the  wind 
lifting  my  hair; 

The  sun's  light  is  hot  upon  me, 

The  moon's  light  is  cool, 

Casting  a  silver-laced  pattern  of  light  and  dark 

Over  the  planes  of  my  body: 

My  thoughts  now  are  the  thoughts  of  a  stone, 

My  substance  now  is  the  substance  of  life  itself; 

I  have  sunk  deep  into  life  as  one  sinks  into -sleep; 

Life  is  above  me,  below  me,  around  me, 

Moving  through  my  pores  of  stone — 

It  does  not  matter  how  small  the  space  you  pack 
life  in, 

That  space  is  as  big  as  the  universe — 

Space,  volume,  and  the  overtone  of  volume 

Move  through  me  like  chords  of  music, 

Like  the  taste  of  happiness  in  the  throat, 

Which  you  fear  to  lose,  though  it  may  choke  you — 

(In  the  cities  this  is  not  known, 

For  space  there  is  emptiness, 

And  time  is  torment)    .    .    .    f    . 

Since  I  became  a  stone 

I  have  no  need  to  remember  anything — 

Everything  is  remembered  for  me; 

I  live  and  I  think  and  I  dream  as  a  stone, 


37] 


In  the  warm  sunlight,  in  the  grey  rain; 
All  my  surfaces  are  touched  to  softness 
By  the  light  fingers  of  the  wind, 
The  slow  dripping  of  rain: 
My  body  retains  only  faintly  the  image 
It  was  meant  to  represent, 
I  am  more  beautiful  and  less  rigid, 
I  am  a  part  of  space, 
Time  has  entered  into  me, 
Life  has  passed  through  me — 
What  matter  the  name  of  the  god  I  was  meant 
to  represent? 


38 


CANDLE-LIGHT  AND  SUN 
CANDLE-LIGHT 

It  might  have  been  me  in  the  darkened  room 

With  the  shutters  closed, 

Lying  straight  and  slim 

In  the  shuttered  dusk, 

In  the  twilight  dim: 

Like  a  silken  husk 

When  the  corn  is  gone, 

Life  withdrawn; 

I  am  living,  and  she  is  dead — 

Or  is  it  I  who  have  died  instead? 

THE  MASK 

Death  is  a  beautiful  white  mask, 

That  slips  over  the  face,  when  the  moment  comes, 

To  hide  the  happiness  of  the  soul. 

RAIN-PRAYER 

A  broken  ploughed  field 

In  the  driving  rain, 

Rain  driven  slant-wise 

Over  the  plain. 

I  long  for  the  rain, 

The  dull  long  rain, 

For  farmlands  and  ploughlands 

And  cornlands  again. 

O  grey  broken  skies, 

You  were  part  of  my  pain! 


39 


FAME 

Fame  is  an  echo 
Far  off,  remote— 
But  love  is  a  sweetness 
You  taste  in  the  throat, 
Friendship  a  comfort 
When  twilight  falls. 
But  fame  is  an  echo 
Through  empty  halls. 

SUNLIGHT 

The  sunlight  is  enough, 

And  the  earth  sucking  life  from  the  sun. 

Horses  in  a  wide  field  are  a  part  of  it, 

Dappled  and  white  and  brown; 

Trees  are  another  kind  of  life, 

Linked  to  us  but  not  understood. 

(Whoever  can  understand  a  horse  or  a  tree 

Can  understand  a  star  or  a  planet: 

But  one  may  feel  things  without  understanding, 

Or  one  may  understand  them  through  feeling.) 

The  simple  light  of  the  sun  is  enough. 

One  will  never  remember 

A  greater  thing  when  one  dies 

Than  sunlight  falling  aslant  long  rows  of  corn, 

Or  rainy  days  heavy  with  grey  sullen  skies. 

Not  love,  not  the  intense  moment  of  passion, 

Not  birth,  is  as  poignant 

As  the  sudden  flash  that  passes 

Like  light  reflected  in  a  mirror 

From  nature  to  us. 


40 


THE  EAGLE'S  SONG 

The  eagle  sings  to  the  sea-gull, 
"My  eyes  are  blind  with  pain, 
Peering  into  the  sun's  face, 
As  yours  in  the  tossing  main; 

Yours  are  the  depths  of  the  sea, 
Mine  the  fathomless  sky, 
Between  us  the  tides  of  men 
Who  blossom,  and  fall,  and  die." 

The  eagle  sings  to  the  sea-gull, 
"The  world  will  toss  and  strain 
Till  the  mountains  march  to  the  sea, 
And  the  sea  climbs  back  again." 

The  eagle  sings  to  the  sea-gull, 
"The  mountains  wait  and  sleep." 
And  the  sea-gull  sings  to  the  eagle 
The  old  sing-song  of  the  deep. 


[41] 


ON  THE  ACEQUIA  MADRE 

Death  has  come  to  visit  us  today, 
He  is  such  a  distinguished  visitor 
Everyone  is  overcome  by  his  presence — 
"Will  you  not  sit  down — take  a  chair?" 

But  Death  stands  in  the  doorway,  waiting  to 

depart; 

He  lingers  like  a  breath  in  the  curtains. 
The  whole  neighborhood  comes  to  do  him  honor, 
Women    in    black    shawls    and    men    in    black 

sombreros 

Sitting  motionless  against  white-washed  walls; 
And  the  old  man  with  the  grey  stubby  beard 
To  whom  death  came, 
Is  stunned  into  silence. 
Death  is  such  a  dintinguished  visitor, 
Making  even  old  flesh  important. 

But  who  now,  I  wonder,  will  take  the  old  horse 
to  pasture? 


42 


PEDRO  MONTOYA  OF  ARROYO  HONDO 

Pedro  Montoya  of  Arroyo  Hondo 

Comes  each  day  with  his  load  of  wood 

Piled  on  two  burros'  backs,  driving  them  down 

Over  the  mesa  to  Santa  Fe  town. 

He  comes  around  by  Arroyo  Chamisa— 
A  small  greyfigure,  as  grey  as  his  burros- 
Down  from  the  mountains,  with  cedar  and  pine 
Girt  about  each  of  the  burros  with  twine. 

As  patient  as  they  are,  he  waits  in  the  plaza 
For  someone  who  comes  with  an  eye  out  for  wood, 
Then  Pedro  wakes  up,  like  a  bantam  at  dawn— 
Si,  Senor,  si  Senor — his  wood  is  gone. 

Pedro  Montoya  of  Arroyo  Hondo 
Rides  back  on  one  burro  and  drives  the  other, 
With  a  sack  of  blue  corn-meal,  tobacco  and  meat, 
A  bit  to  smoke  and  a  bit  to  eat. 

Pedro  Montoya  of  Arroyo  Hondo— 

If  I  envied  any,  I'd  envy  him! 

With  a  burro  to  ride  and  a  burro  to  drive, 

There  is  hardly  a  man  so  rich  alive. 


43 


UNA  ANCIANA  MEXICANA 

I've  seen  her  pass  with  eyes  upon  the  road — 
An  old  bent  woman  in  a  bronze  black  shawl, 
With  skin  as  dried  and  wrinkled  as  a  mummy's, 
As  brown  as  a  cigar-box,  and  her  voice 
Like  the  low  vibrant  strings  of  a  guitar. 
And  I  have  fancied  from  the  girls  about 
What  she  was  at  their  age,  what  they  will  be 
When  they  are  old  as  she.     But  now  she  sits 
And  smokes  away  each  night  till  dawn  comes 

round, 

Thinking,  beside  the  pinons'  flame,  of  days 
Long  past  and   gone,   when   she  was   young — 

content 
To  be  no  longer  young,  her  epic  done: 

For  a  woman  has  work  and  much  to  do, 

And  it's  good  at  the  last  to  know  it's  through, 

And  still  have  time  to  sit  alone, 

To  have  some  time  you  can  call  your  own. 

It's  good  at  the  last  to  know  your  mind 

And  travel  the  paths  that  you  traveled  blind, 

To  see  each  turn  and  even  make 

Trips  in  the  byways  you  did  not  take — 

But  that,  por  Dios,  is  over  and  done, 

It's  pleasanter  now  in  the  way  we've  come; 

It's  good  to  smoke  and  none  to  say 

What's  to  be  done  on  the  coming  day, 

No  mouths  to  feed  or  coat  to  mend, 

And  none  to  call  till  the  last  long  end. 

Though  one  have  sons  and  friends  of  one's  own, 

It's  better  at  last  to  live  alone. 

For  a  man  must  think  of  food  to  buy, 

And  a  woman's  thoughts  may  be  wild  and  high; 

But  when  she  is  young  she  must  curb  her  pride, 

And  her  heart  is  tamed  for  the  child  at  her  side. 

[441 


But  when  she  is  old  her  thoughts  may  go 
Wherever  they  will,  and  none  to  know. 
And  night  is  the  time  to  think  and  dream, 
And  not  to  get  up  with  the  dawn's  first  gleam; 
Night  is  the  time  to  laugh  or  weep, 
And  when  dawn  comes  it  is  time  to  sleep  .  .  . 

When  it's  all  over  and  there's  none  to  care, 

I  mean  to  be  like  her  and  take  my  share 

Of  comfort  when  the  long  day's  done, 

And  smoke  away  the  nights,  and  see  the  sun 

Far  off,  a  shrivelled  orange  in  a  sky  gone  black, 

Through  eyes  that  open  inward  and  look  back. 


45 


MADRE  MARIA 

From  the  Spanish 

On  the  mountain  Lucia 
Was  Madre  Maria, 
With  book  of  gold. 
Half  was  she  reading, 
Half  praying  and  pleading 
For  sorrow  foretold. 

Came  her  son  Jesus 
To  the  mountain  Lucia: 
"What  are  you  doing  then, 
Madre  Maria?" 

"Nor  reading  nor  sleeping, 
But  dreaming  a  dream. 
On  Calvary's  hill-top 
Three  crosses  gleam, 
Bare  in  the  moonlight; 
Your  body  on  one 
Nailed  feet  and  hands, 
O  my  dear  little  son!" 

"Be  it  so,  be  it  so, 
O  mi  Madre  Maria!" 

Who  says  this  prayer 

Three  times  a  day 

Will  find  Heaven's  doors 

Opened  alway, 

And  Heirs  doors  shut 

Forever  and  aye 

Amen,  Jesus! 


46 


CUNDIYO 

As  I  came  down  from  Cundiyo, 
Upon  the  road  to  Chimayo 

I  met  three  women  walking; 
Each  held  a  sorrow  to  her  breast, 
And  one  of  them  a  small  cross  pressed- 

Three  black-shawled  women  walking. 

"Now  why  is  it  that  you  must  go 
Up  the  long  road  to  Cundiyo?" 

The  old  one  did  the  talking: 
"I  go  to  bless  a  dying  son." 
"And  I  a  sweetheart  never  won." 

Three  women  slowly  walking. 

The  third  one  opened  wide  her  shawl 
And  showed  a  new-born  baby  small 

That  slept  without  a  sorrow: 
"And  I,  in  haste  that  we  be  wed — 
Too  late,  too  late,  if  he  be  dead! 

The  Padre  comes  tomorrow." 

As  I  went  up  to  Cundiyo, 

In  the  grey  dawn  from  Chimayo, 

I  met  three  women  walking; 
And  over  paths  of  sand  and  rocks 
Were  men  who  carried  a  long  box — 

Beside  three  women  walking. 


47 


MANZANITA 

From  the  Spanish 

Little  red  apple  upon  the  tree, 

If  you  are  not  in  love,  fall  in  love  with  me!  .  .  . 

From  me  this  night  you  shall  not  go, 

Not  till  the  dawn,  when  the  first  cocks  crow. 


48] 


CHULA  LA  MANANA 

From  the  Spanish 
Pretty  is  the  morning, 

Pretty  is  the  day. 
When  the  moon  comes  up 

It  is  light  as  day. 

Fortune's  wheel  keeps  turning! 

Yes,  Fortune  has  its  ups  and  downs, 

Fortune  is  a  bubble. 
It  was  all  for  a  married  woman 

I  had  my  trouble. 

Fortune's  wheel  keeps  turning! 


It  was  eight  o'clock  at  the  bridge, 
And  nine  at  Jesus  Maria, 

But  before  I  could  reach  her  door, 
I  was  caught  by  her  fat  old  tial 

Fortune's  wheel  keeps  turning! 


[49] 


"CHRIST  IS  BORN  IN  BETHLEHEM" 

A  New  Mexico  Nursery  Rhyme 

Cristo  nacio  is  what  the  rooster  said, 

And  the  hen  said,  En  Belen! 

The  goats  were  so  curious  that  they  said 

Vamos  a  ver — let  us  go  see! 

But  the  wise  old  sheep  said, 

No  es  menester! — there's  no  need  of  it! 

Cristo  nacio 
En  Belen! 
Vamos  a  ver — 
No  es  menester! 


[50 


LA  MUERTE  DE  LA  VIEJA 

There  were  four  old  women  as  old  as  she 
Who  knelt  in  the  room  where  the  sick  one  lay, 
And  the  resador  with  his  book  of  prayers 
Who  sat  by  her  side  all  night  to  pray. 

In  the  morning  light  her  face  was  grey 
As  the  ash  that  covered  the  embers  still, 
The  black-shawled  women  had  never  stirred 
And  the  old  man's  voice  was  hoarse  and  shrill. 

The  crucifix  laid  on  her  heaving  breast 
Moved  with  her  harsh  breath  up  and  down, 
And  her  mouth  like  a  chicken's  gaped  for  air 
With  a  noise  that  the  droning  could  not  drown. 

The  sunlight  poured  through  the  open  door 
Where  I  stood  and  wondered  how  it  could  be 
That  the  old,  old  woman  with  such  great  strength 
Fought  with  the  force  we  could  not  see. 

As  she  had  fought  long  years  ago 
Through  child-bed  pain,  now  her  body  thin 
Strove  to  the  last  with  the  mid-wife  Death, 
Till  silence  ushered  her  new  life  in. 


[51 


JUAN  QUINTANA 

The  goat-herd  follows  his  flock 
Over  the  sandy  plain, 
And  the  goats  nibble  the  rabbit-bush 
Acrid  with  desert  rain. 

Old  Juan  Quintana's  coat 

Is  a  faded  purple  blue, 

And  his  hat  is  a  warm  plum-brown, 

And  his  trousers  a  tawny  hue; 

He  is  sunburnt  like  the  hills, 
And  his  eyes  have  a  strange  goat-look, 
And  when  I  came  on  him  alone, 
He  suddenly  quivered  and  shook. 

Out  in  the  hills  all  day, 
The  trees  do  funny  things— 
And  a  horse  shaped  like  a  man 
Rose  up  from  the  ground  on  wings. 

And  a  burro  came  and  stood 

With  a  cross,  and  preached  to  the  flock, 

While  old  Quintana  sat 

As  cold  as  ice  on  a  rock. 

And  sometimes  the  mountains  move, 
And  the  mesa  turns  about, 
And  Juan  Quintana  thinks  he's  lost, 
Till  a  neighbor  hears  him  shout. 

And  they  say  with  a  little  laugh 
That  he  isn't  quite  right,  up  here; 
And  they'll  have  to  get  a  muchacho 
To  help  with  the  flock  next  year. 

[521 


PETROLINO'S  COMPLAINT 

The  old  ways  have  changed  since  you  walked 

here, 
But  worst  of  all  is  the  way  the  people  have 

become. 
They  have  no  hearts,  and  their  minds  are  like 

putty, 

And  if  you  ask  for  conversation,  they  might  as 
well  be  dumb! 

Though  I  am  old,  and  my  sight  is  not  good, 
And  I  don't  hear  as  well — muy  verdad — as  some, 

With  my  stick  I  can  walk  faster  than  many, 
And  my  mind  travels  faster  than  a  man's  with 
no  tongue! 

The  young  have  no  thought  for  their  elders, 
Their  ranches  are  now  no  bigger  than  your 
thumb, 

The  young  men  work  in  the  mines  in  Colora'o, 
Or  they  sit  and  warm  their  stomachs  in  the  sun ! 

The  girls  spend  their  money  on  big  hats  and  velvet, 
But  when  they  would  marry,  they  haven't  the 

sum; 

And  the  old  songs  and  dances  are  forgotten, 
As  the  Saints  will  be  forgotten — if  they  go  on 
as  they've  begun! 

I  have  gone  looking  through  hillsides  and  canyons, 

Through  all  the  placitas  where  we  used  to  run; 

But  the  old  ways  have  changed  since  you  walked 

here, 

And  a  goat  is  more  sociable  than  a  man  that  is 
dumb! 

[531 


EL  COYOTITO 

From  the  Spanish 

When  I  left  Hermosillo 

My  tears  fell  like  rain, 
But  the  little  red  flower 

Consoled  my  pain. 

I  am  like  the  coyote 

That  rolls  them,  and  goes 
Trotting  off  side-ways, 

And  nobody  knows. 

The  green  pine  has  fallen, 

Where  the  doves  used  to  pair; 
Now  the  black  one  may  find  on  returning 

Little  tow-heads  with  sandy  hair! 

The  adobe  is  gone 

Where  my  sword  hung  suspended; 
Why  worry — when  everything's 

At  the  last  ended? 

The  adobe  is  gone 

Where  my  mirror  was  bright, 
And  the  small  cedar  tree 

Is  the  rabbit's  tonight. 

The  cactus  is  bare 

Where  the  tunas  were  sweet; 
No  longer  need  you  be  jealous 

Of  the  women  I  meet. 

Friends,  if  you  see  her 

In  the  hills  up  above, 
Don't  tell  her  that  I  am  in  prison — 

For  she  is  my  love. 

[541 


NOTES 


NOTES 

PAGE  23.  Indian  Songs:  Based  on  the  literal  translations 
made  by  Miss  Frances  Densmore.  (Chippewa  Music, 
Bulletins  45  and  53,  Bureau  of  American  Ethnology.) 
Indian  poetry,  in  its  most  characteristic  form,  is  at 
the  opposite  pole  from  narrative  or  descriptive  poetry,  or 
even  from  the  usual  occidental  lyric,  which  gives  a 
double  image,  i.  e.,  the  original  emotional  stimulus 
through  the  thought  or  emotion  aroused  by  it.  Indian 
poetry  is  seldom  self-conscious  to  this  degree.  It  gives 
the  naked  image,  or  symbol,  which  is  itself  the  emotional 
stimulus.  The  distinction  is  subtle,  but  one  who  would 
interpret  or  translate  Indian  verse  must  perceive  it. 

PAGE  27.  Corn-Grinding  Song:  This  song  was  given  me 
by  Canute  Suaza,  a  Tesuque  Indian,  who  translated  it 
for  me  from  the  Tewa,  in  both  Spanish  and  English. 
My  rendering  is  as  direct  as  possible. 

PAGE  29.  The  Green  Corn  Dance:  The  symbolism  of 
Indian  dances,  carried  out  in  every  detail  of  costume, 
gesture,  and  song,  takes  such  a  hold  upon  the  imagina 
tion  that  one  becomes  only  half  conscious  of  the  dancers, 
lost  in  that  archetypal  world  of  which  the  dance  furn 
ishes  a  symbolic  mirror. 

PAGE  46.  Madre  Maria:  From  a  Spanish  version  ob 
tained  by  Miss  Barbara  Freire-Marreco  from  an  Indian 
woman  at  the  Santa  Clara  Pueblo.  The  Indians  have 
preserved  many  of  the  traditional  and  popular  Spanish 
New  Mexico  songs.  This  is  an  old  song,  probably 
brought  to  New  Mexico  by  the  early  Franciscans,  other 
versions  of  it  having  been  found  in  South  America.  The 
final  stanza  is  obviously  a  local  addition. 

PAGES  48,  50.  Manzanita  and  the  New  Mexico  Nursery 
rhyme  "Christ  is  Born  in  Bethlehem"  were  given  me  by 
Mrs.  N.  Howard  Thorp  of  Santa  Fe. 

PAGE  49.  Chula  la  Manana  is  a  free  translation  of  a 
popular  New  Mexico  song.  (The  word  tia  means  aunt.) 
There  are  many  versions  of  this  song  in  the  southwest 
and  in  old  Mexico. 

[571 


PAGE  54.  El  Coyotito  is  from  the  Spanish  version  in 
Charles  F.  Lummis'  The  Land  of  Poco  Tiempo.  Mr. 
Lummis  himself  has  made  an  excellent  translation  of  the 
song,  but  has  left  out,  perhaps  judiciously,  some  of  the 
tang.  His  translation,  however,  is  fitted  to  the  music 
accompanying  the  original  song;  while  mine  has  created 
a  new  rhythm. 


58 


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